


Boldly Going Nowhere

by dashielldeveron



Series: extremely married [2]
Category: Red Letter Media, RedLetterMedia RPF
Genre: Baby's first smut, F/M, Roleplay, Smut, Star Trek - Freeform, Star Trek TOS, and i can't believe i'm tagging this but, and they were quarrantined, oh my god they were quarrantined, star trek roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:54:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23300482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dashielldeveron/pseuds/dashielldeveron
Summary: If soup were Star Trek, you’re at thesoup store.Star Trek roleplay with Mike. He gets a little too into it.
Relationships: Mike Stoklasa/Reader
Series: extremely married [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1675645
Comments: 19
Kudos: 29
Collections: Red Letter Media Fanfic Quarantine Collection





	Boldly Going Nowhere

“Captain’s log, stardate 3138.9: once again I find myself planted in an outlandish position. Having approved my crew for shore leave on the planet Kuranan, I find myself quite alone on the Starship Enterprise. What’s more, it appears that the non-militaristic, welcoming people of Kuranan that my crew has taken leave with appear to have successfully pulled the wool over our eyes. My crew is trapped within their commune, with the transporter malfunctioning and communicators only working sporadically.”

“Captain Stoklasa,” you called over his shoulder, “Hailing frequencies open.”

“The only crewmember remaining aboard with me, my main science officer, Lieutenant Stoklasa, and I are desperately trying to make contact and rescue my crew before it’s too late. Lieutenant Stoklasa,” Mike said, eyes on the viewing screen, “Have you established contact?”

“Nothing substantial, sir.” You tapped the earpiece farther into your ear. “For a brief moment, we picked up Sulu’s communicator, but he took no notice. I can play back what was heard, sir.”

“Please.”

If Rich ever found out about this, you were dead. It was hot as fuck right now, but if Karin ever asked you how you and Mike spent quarantine, you might just shrivel up and melt into your perfectly replicated, Starfleet-issued boots—and Rich, Rich would look at you and _know_. Rich always knows.

He’d know that you and Mike have completely rearranged the furniture in your living room to resemble the bridge, moving the biggest armchair into the centre for the command chair, facing the flat-screen hooked to the wall.

He’d know that the tablet taped to the command armchair’s arm was controlling a power point of spacescapes, character screengrabs, and audio clips that you two had prepared ahead of time, ready to flash across the television at the flick of Mike’s finger.

He’d know about the bridge ambience program set up against the fireplace, the costume (science officer blue) you’d ordered specifically for this purpose, the time spent hot-gluing props like your earpiece, the research you’d done to get your hair the closest it could be to whatever the yeomen had going on, the time you and Mike had actually spent sitting down to write the script (really, more of an outline) for this—and what’s worse, he’d know about how turned on it made you.

You weren’t embarrassed by this, but it’s not a fact you want circulated. Oh, Jay drinks pumpkin beer; Rich loves XCOM and hates RPGs; and Mike and his wife do nasty _Star Trek_ roleplay in broad daylight so that they can both desecrate a franchise that hardly needs more filth associated with it and sloppily fuck on every surface in their household at the same time.

An audio clip crackled to life after the communicator beeps. “ _srrrrk_ —upset the holy Baghon by these intruders. Shall their use in the midsummer ritual— _srrrrk_ —let us prepare—antlers for the Baghon’s shrine? Jenanon, put those back—” The Kuranan voice blipped out with the sound of rustling clothes (it had been you recording in the bathroom a few days before, recording lines you wrote to surprise Mike for the real deal).

“The landing party appears to have encountered the hostile cult of the Baghon,” said Mike, frowning and rubbing his index finger in the crease of his lips. “Lieutenant Stoklasa, what is known about the Baghon?”

You eased up behind the command chair, sliding your hand across the back—not touching him, but close enough for him to feel the warmth of your hand. “Records have little information on the cult, but it _is_ known that they hold a holy sacrifice in honour of the spirit of their ancestor Baghon, whom they believe to have departed from their earth as a martyr and has since ascended to what one might call godhood.”

“Hm.” Mike shifted in his seat and pursed his lips. “Is there any more in the records?”

“Regardless,” you said, clutching your clipboard-tablet-thing to your chest, “There appears to be no contact between the people and its ghost, nor any evidence it exists. Captain, if you’ll allow me to be frank, I believe we have a Baghon problem.”

_You_ had been proud of that joke, but Mike? Mike nodded and narrowed his eyes. “You’re quite right, Lieutenant. We _must_ reach the rest of our crewmen before any of them are sacrificed to the Baghon. Hm. Contact Starfleet and tell them about our situation. This is unlike anything Starfleet has ever encountered.”

“Shall I ask to send a ship, sir?”

“No. We’re the only ship in the sector. Any help would be too late. We’ll have to do it on our own,” said Mike, and he swiped his fingers behind an ear—the adhesive for his Vulcan ears was finicky and prone to loosen.

You retreated to your table and played the sound effect, tapping on your earpiece.

The back of Mike’s head was looking _good._ He’d left out the gel and not bothered to comb his hair (at your request), so it was flaunting whatever curls would hold that day. He spoke to Starfleet with too much concentration in his voice; authority diffused and looked sharp on Mike. His command shirt was tight around his forearms, and should he roll them to his elbows (against Starfleet regulations), you wouldn’t be able to contain yourself. Christ, your face is getting warm over your husband’s fucking _forearms._ Get a hold of yourself—actually? No. You don’t have to.

Look at those fucking forearms. They’re great, aren’t they? Sometimes, you’d wrap your hands around them, tracing the tendons and the bone jutting out in his wrist, your fingers running through the coarse, black hair, and he’d try to lift you just by raising his arms (some attempts were better than others). Mostly, you loved when they were tight around your waist at night, gripping more firmly as his dreams passed, his hot breath on the back of your throat.

With any luck, they’d be holding you in a few minutes.

“Fascinating,” Mike was saying, “Lieutenant, come here.” He beckoned you with a loose gesture of his fingers, and you jogged to his side. The view screen swopped to pictures of the surface of Kuranan—really, just some TOS set pictures, but still. “Sen _sors_ show that Kuranan, despite its classification as a class M planet, differs from Earth in that its atmosphere holds more oxygen in its atmosphere at a thirty-nine percent rate. That’s higher than Earth’s highest concentration of oxygen in the Carboniferous period.”

Placing your hand next to his on the armchair control panel, your pinkies touched. “Earth’s current concentration is twenty-point-ninety-five percent.” He jerked his hand away, and you frowned. “Captain, sir, the concentration of oxygen in the atmosphere could have possibly been a contributing factor to large-scale evolutionary phenomena in Earth’s past. What effects do you believe it could have here, aside from rapid growth in amphibians and insects?”

“My concerns are with my crew, Lieutenant,” said Mike. Why isn’t he looking at you? His eyes flitted across each papier-mâché rock on the view screen, and he clenched the edge of the armchair until his knuckles whitened against the red from the cold. He parted his lips, his tongue resting on his lower one, and it twitched slightly.

Well, rambling psychobabble has made him hard before. “I suspect the entire population is suffering from myopia,” you said, “However, since our crew is not accustomed to increased concentrations of oxygen, there is a possibility the alveoli in their lungs may collapse soon, in addition to retinal detachment and damage to cell membranes. With luck, none will have seizures for the rest of his life. At this moment, the odds are that the crew is suffering from nausea, vertigo, and vomiting.” You leant over him to fiddle with the control panel, your back grazing his chest (God, he was warm). “In the long-term, recoveries can be made, but it shall take some time.”

“Lieutenant, get out of the way; I believe something is coming in through the view screen,” said Mike, and he pushed you out of the way and hunched forward in his seat, his elbows resting on his knees. “Something’s glinting on the horizon—something big. Just there.” He pointed towards a swelling, violet cloud amidst the plastic flowers on the horizon.

“Do you think it’s the Baghon, Captain?” You rested a hand lightly on his shoulder, and he immediately leant back in his seat, loosening himself from you. He’s not doing this on purpose, right?

“We can only hope.” Mike licked his lips, narrowing his eyes. “If it’s not, then we have an entirely different problem on our hands. Help me take the helm,” he said, standing, “We’ll approach it with caution and attempt to make contact. If it’s intelligent, we’ll reason with it. It may be holding our crew captive—or worse, be the cause of some casualties.”

Oh, my God. He’s _not_ doing this on purpose. He’s—he’s too into being a starship captain to think about sex. Fucking hell.

Biting your lip, you swore your heart grew another size. He’s baby. Mike is—he’s so lost in the world he’s spent nearly thirty-five years thinking about, even though the world right now is the living room. Outside of the _Star Trek_ RPG he played in high school, no one’s taken him seriously in this setting—even the _Star Trek: Discovery_ sketch was _very_ tongue-in-cheek—onscreen, obviously, but also off. Plus, the _Discovery_ uniforms made it clear that it wasn’t real _Star Trek,_ constantly breaking suspension of disbelief.

Mike was _here_ now, wholly engrossed in saving a crew that doesn’t exist from a fucking ghost cult. But that wasn’t the point of this. Mike’s mind has branched off from the original intent. He has his prime directive, and you have yours.

Time to get embarrassing.

“Yes, sir,” you said, moving to take Chekhov’s place at the makeshift helm, and instead, you threw yourself to the side, landing on Mike’s lap. “Gosh-darn _turbulence_ ,” you said, steadying yourself with a hand on his chest, dragging your fingers across his shirt into a fist.

After a beat, Mike raised an eyebrow. “Odd to encounter turbulence this close in orbit.”

You blinked. “You’re right, captain. Most unusual,” you said, as if you weren’t shifting your hips strategically, “Perhaps the Baghon affects gravitational pull.”

“Get to the controls,” he said, pushing on your lower back for you to stand, and he spun in Sulu’s chair to face the view screen. “We have a mission to unravel and a spirit to exorcise.”

“Exorcism?” You fiddled with a knob that was originally a bunch of bottle caps.

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” said Mike, with hope in his voice.

Right. Gotcha, sweetheart.

The purple cloud expanded to fill most of the viewing screen, where it swirled at its sides in undulating tendrils. You shot a sideways glance at Mike. You were supposed to go find the cult, not interact with the ghost that doesn’t exist. Since when does it exist? When the two of you talked about mixing it up in the bedroom, you didn’t mean the _plot._ Let’s see how this dumbass gets out of this one.

He parked the _Enterprise_ just ahead of the ghost (you had a sudden vision of Kirk handing Spock a keyring, jingle jingle, with a Starfleet keychain) and said, “Open communications, Lieutenant.”

Ducking to the back, you played the sound effect again. C’mon, Mike, I _dare_ you. I dare you to take a conversation with a cloud seriously.

_No_ , wait, _fuck_. You’re supposed to be sexing the Mike, not caring about the story. Christ.

“This is the captain of the _Enterprise_ ,” Mike was saying, “Our respect for other life forms requires that we give you this warning. As representatives of the Federation, we mean you no harm, but should the release of our crew be denied, we are unafraid to resort to force. Are you responsible for blocking our communicators?”

Mike cued a sound bite—a garbled, heavily edited recording of himself that sounded like a warped combination of _garbage day_ and dead cats greeting Jay at the gates of Heaven. “Ah, _yesssss_ …I have heard of _you_ , Captain Mike Stoklasa. The legends of the Federation reach even here in the outer rim—”

He’s having a conversation with himself. A conversation about how great he is.

As much as you want to break character and remind him this isn’t a jack-off session, he hasn’t said the safe word (it’s _isotope_ ). Nothing _dangerous_ is happening. (Not to mention that with his level of humility and low self-esteem [re: recovering self-hatred], it was good for him to think of himself in any positive way, and if it has to be within a live-action, maladaptive daydream, so be it.

You can…you can let it go on for a while.)

“—though your cultists treat you well, Baghon, you’ve let yourself go. You’ll get a strenuous work-out when the ritual to rid Kuranan of you, because you haven’t been getting enough _exorcise._ ”

That’s enough.

“By God, Mike!” You stormed to the helm and turned on your heel once you got there, crossing your arms as you glared down at him. “You can’t seriously be considering— _fraternising_ with an unknown entity. Screw the glow cloud; you need to act now and think about doing who’s right! It’s not illogical,” you said, raising a finger when he opened his mouth, and he promptly shut it. “If we followed your cold reasoning, which, at the moment, is _not rooted_ in reason _or_ logic, then innocent people will suffer in time we could be using right now. You’re reaching beyond yourself.”

Glowering, Mike took a moment to take a deep breath. “What are you saying, Lieutenant?”

Oh, Mike, you beautiful, beautiful dumbass, you’d better be doing this intentionally.

“Captain, if you’ll permit me to escort you to the medbay—”

“On what grounds?”

“Sir, when the commanding officer is deemed mentally unfit to continue commanding the ship, the first officer has every right to report him and take over.”

He tapped his fingers against the control panel before standing. “I am perfectly sound of mind, Lieutenant.”

“Sir, you were not speaking to anything,” you said to his back as he strode away from you, “Nothing was on the view screen.”

“There was, too.”

“Then I’ll say you are mentally unfit for service, whether you are or not.”

Scowling, Mike looked you up and down as he eased into the command chair. “You…speak mutiny.”

“Fluently.” You clasped your hands behind your back and playfully nudged the toe of his boot. “And that is very kind of you, captain.”

Mike’s eyes glazed over, and he very slightly swayed to the side; he blinked thrice and folded his hands across his stomach. “Well, then, if I’m unfit, and you have the right, then why don’t you come take the command chair from me?”

And there we are. You _could_ jump on his lap right now and start making out with him, but with this setup? It’d be like buying a DVD only to use it as a coaster. As much as you’re wanting to get to the point, you have to play the game.

You cracked a knuckle behind your back. “You think you can keep it from me?”

“I think,” said Mike with a small smile, “I won’t have to change to the defensive at all.”

“Is that so?”

“I don’t surrender as easily as you, Lieutenant. Years of training at Starfleet and reigning in the stars have done that to me.” Mike raised a fist to his mouth. “You, on the other hand. I know that you would shatter and that I would have you, right here, right now, if I could touch the inside of your ankle—just there,” said Mike, his eyes flicking to the spot, “on the curve of the bone.”

With an ankle ablaze, you swallowed with a dry throat. “Anything else before I proceed, sir?”

“I shall inform the Federation about your impulse to treachery,” he was saying, reaching for the control panel, “Mutiny will be recorded in the captain’s log.”

“With all due respect, sir,” you said, planting a knee on the chair between his legs and swiping the panel off the armchair to the floor (his eyes darted to the tablet as it fell, but he didn’t chide you for inaccuracy), “I’m more interested in a _different_ captain’s log.”

The pain on Mike’s scrunched-up face was palpable. His shut his eyes tight, allowing himself to laugh through silent huffs, his chest shaking, but he took a deep breath, opened his eyes, and resumed solemnity. “Lieutenant Stoklasa, I must confess,” he said while one of your hands sank into the cushion by his head, “This is…hardly appropriate.”

“Captain Stoklasa,” you said, “Like you _care_.”

And you leant in to kiss him, but the fucker started talking. “On the contrary, my motivations for—”

“ _Sir_ ,” you said in a huff, ducking your head close enough to feel the residual heat emanating from his cheeks from your stupid innuendo, “Would it not please you for me to…?” You raised your free hand to his face—just feeling his heat, not touching him—in fact, you weren’t touching him at all. “ _Ffffuck_ ,” you said under your breath. “Permission requested to…”

You trailed off when Mike simply held two fingers up between you.

He gently raised his eyebrows and nodded.

Your fingers were shaking when they met his, the tips descending the length of yours before rising again. Again, you tried to kiss him, but he held his two fingers to your lips, his warm eyes refusing to break from yours.

(Of _course_. This was a move Spock pulls in TOS 3.02, “The Enterprise Incident.” Spock seduces a Romulan captain to stall for time. They start out with the finger touching, but as it escalates, Spock and the captain are touching each other’s faces. All very Vulcan, if not a bit passionate for a first meeting, but Spock had a purpose.

And so do you.)

When you took Mike’s fingers into your mouth down to the knuckle, the sputtering noise he made was glorious; his lower face and neck ballooned out like a goddamn bullfrog, but he had regained himself by the time you had knelt, guiding his wrist down in front of his crotch—sucking his fingers as if they were his cock, your lips and chin brushing against the real thing while you worked your tongue between his fingers.

“God, _fuck_.” There wasn’t any strain in his voice; he sounded terse, precise, and _clean_. “You look so good like that, with your lips wrapped around my fingers. You _like_ being stuffed, don’t you, Lieutenant? You like being on your knees.”

You had to physically move your head away from his fingers to get them to slip out of your mouth, and, running the backs of your fingers from his knee up his thigh, you nuzzled your face against his bulge, mouthing at his balls.

“C’mon,” he said, once his dick twitched under your touch, “On my lap, and that’s an order.”

Oh, thank God. Pushing on his thighs to stand, you slinked up between his splayed legs and into his lap, straddling him, your legs spread wider than what was comfortable. You cupped his face, smiling as you scratched his five o’clock shadow before finally connecting your lips with his—Mike stretched towards you to make the link.

His mouth’s warm; Christ, he’s always so, so hot, so full of a quiet heat that could run over at any time—you’d compare him to hellfire, but since it’s a flame that you _want_ to consume you, the metaphor falls flat. Impatient for his tongue to be in your mouth, you sucked on it when it prodded at your teeth, and you pulled him closer, your hands dragging across his scruff (with the soft, prickly noise) and into his hair, one hand curling into hair at his crown and the other at his nape, applying a light pressure there to keep his mouth close to yours. But something’s off.

When it hit you, you pulled away enough to catch your breath, your nose pressed against his cheek, and you said, “Mike, if you don’t put your hands on me in the next twelve seconds, I’m gonna kill you.”

Grinning, Mike snaked a hand to the small of your back to move your hips flush against his. “I wanted you to ask,” he said, “but Lieutenant, threatening to murder your captain is another offence I’ll have to report.” His hands slid underneath your thighs and gave your ass a squeeze.

Lieutenant, still? Say _sweetheart_ right now. “Then you may as well add a third misdemeanour to my record, sir.”

“Oh?” Mike kissed your mouth again before moving on to the corner of your mouth, your cheek, the spot on your jaw right in front of your ear. “What’s that?"

“I—” He bit your earlobe and pulled away, letting it drag through his teeth before sucking on the area below it, his tongue briefly grazing the skin. “I’m afraid my underwear isn’t exactly Starfleet issue.”

He pried his mouth away with an honestly _nasty_ sounding squelch. “In that case, it may have to be confiscated.”

You kissed him as you reached for the hem of your dress, and you broke from him only to pull it over your head. You kissed him once, twice, taking his lower lip into your mouth and nibbling lightly, and he said against your lips, “Give me a minute.”

So, you sat back on his lap, your hands sliding from his shoulders down to his forearms. Mike let his gaze roam up and down your body, each part feeling like it was next to flame when he looked at it (It was relatively cheap lingerie, but hey, it was an actual matching set, and he hadn’t seen it yet). You rolled your hips against him, and he pinched one in the middle of your next movement.

“Hold on,” Mike said, “Can’t I take a moment to admire you first?”

Oh! _Baby_! “Yeah, of course,” you said, and you bit your lip. “Can we lose your shirt, then, too?”

Mike grimaced but yanked up the hem of his shirt anyway. “If you insist.”

“Oh, I do.” You helped him pull it over his head and down to his wrists. “I really love looking at you, Mike. You’re so pretty.”

Scoffing, Mike eased the back of his hand from the smallest point of your waist down to the curve of your hip, sweeping backward to dig his fingers into your ass.

You didn’t even yelp; you were smiling at the splattering of freckles across his shoulders and upper chest, the dark chest hair that somehow made a soft noise when you ran your nails through it, the stretch marks around his cosy stomach, and the darker, coarser hair that trailed into his pants. “Gorgeous,” you said, “You’re absolutely _exquisite,_ baby.”

Mike brushed against the side of your boob with his fingertips before pressing his thumb against your nipple, rolling it. “Well, if I’m exquisite,” he said with a sardonic lilt, “then you’re stunning. _Striking_. Otherworldly.”

“Set phasors to _stunning_.”

“Oh, fuck off,” said Mike with a grin, and he raised a hand to pinch both your nipples at once before letting one fall back down to grip your ass again.

“You know,” you said, grinding against him, “I’m thinking about getting _DI’raqloD_ tattooed on my ass.”

“The fuck is that?”

“Klingon for _ram_. Rather instructional, don’t you think?”

He laughed, holding his tongue between his teeth, his chest heaving under your hands. “You wouldn’t.”

You tilted your head. “Quite correct, actually. It’s not the verb form of _ram_ but the animal. Hate to be pedantic—”

“That’s a lie,” said Mike as he pushed between your shoulder blades to bring you close enough to unhook your bra.

“Guilty. I’d also considering _Ha’DlbaH_ , which is _animal_. _ghung_ , which is to be hungry, and _‘oj_ , to be thirsty, if we want to go into contemporary slang, are also in the running, and so is _Sa’Hut_ — _buttocks_ —but that’s rather on the nose, don’t you think?” You slipped the bra straps off and threw the thing across the room, landing on the control panel at the helm. “I briefly considered _qemjIq_ , which is _hole_ , but I thought it was a little too demeaning.”

“Don’t—don’t do any of that, please,” said Mike, looking up at you as he kissed the inner curve of your boob, “That’s too permanent to be ironic.” He opened and closed his mouth as wide as he could against your skin, leaving a large, wet spot as he dragged his mouth to your other breast.

He was lightly biting your nipple and rolling the other one under his thumb, his large hand squeezing your entire boob all the while, when his free hand grazed your clit through the thin fabric of your thong. With the same, two fingers that had been in your mouth, Mike drew them down from your clit to your centre and back, this time with more pressure and catching your clitoral hood before releasing and giving your clit a tap. He cupped you, rubbing your clit with his thumb.

He nipped quickly at the underside of your boob before taking his time kissing and sucking up towards your collarbone. “Lieutenant,” he breathed, his mouth hovered over your neck, his breath a blowtorch, “I want to see you come so hard that you feel me with every movement, every step. Every time you’re on the bridge or walking the halls alone, I want you to _feel_ me, to be so aware of where I’ve been and what I’ve done that your cunt positively _aches_ for me and that you can swear you feel me leaking out of you.” Mike’s fingers pushed hard against your clit and moved in a particularly hard circle, and they pressed down through your folds, getting themselves wet. Mike dragged the length of his middle finger across your clit. You jolted, your hips chasing after his fingers as they rounded your entrance, and you gave with ease when he prodded at you, pulsing, swollen, and _wet_.

“You know what I want you to do, Lieutenant?” Mike yanked you close to him by the hair on the back of your neck to whisper in your ear. “I want you to ride my fingers like you’d ride my cock.” He kissed you again, his mouth opening instantly as he shoved his tongue inside yours.

Inhaling sharply, you broke away. “I can do zat,” you said, your voice hitching when he rolled your clit with three, fast strokes upwards that hit your nerves raw, and he slid one of his fingers deep into you. A quiet _fuck_ was wrenched from you as you dropped your head to his shoulder, but you tried to stifle the softer, breathier gasps as he bent his finger into the feverish heat.

Mike circled your clit with his thumb, but he stilled his finger. “I don’t see any riding. Get to it,” he said, and he kissed your temple.

Nodding, you braced your hands on his shoulders, and you began to move your hips, with a newfound sense of security once Mike lowered his hand on your boob to your hip, where he was rubbing circles around your hipbone, mimicking his motion on your clit. You leant in to lick a line up the side of his neck, and you sucked your way back down to the place where his neck met shoulder; making sure you would get both skin _and_ muscle, you bit down.

Mike took a breathy inhale, and he clamped his mouth shut when you sucked on the same spot, a thwarted sort of grunt barely escaping his throat. His fingers dragged and pressed, aimless and unrushed, and you squelched when he slipped in a second finger—your lips, sucking against his neck, fell slack.

His cock, hard and thick, was trapped between your bodies, though still clothed, and you gave a particularly hard grind before reaching for it; you barely grazed it before Mike bucked his hips. Oh, my _fuck_. You’re scarcely laying your palm flat against him when he jerked your hand to his cheek, and he stared you down while he flicked up his wrist and his fingers curled deeper into you. You jolted forward, your thighs clenching.

“Bet you wanna come, don’t you, Lieutenant? Oh, I _know_ you want to.” His fingers dug into your asscheek as his others plunged into you with deliberate force. “Wanna feel my lips on yours? Want me to go down on you?”

You rubbed your thumb over his stubble and nodded, careful not to break eye contact, no matter how much you wanted to duck your head into his neck and ride out orgasm after orgasm.

“You’re _adorable_ , Lieutenant; you know that’s not gonna happen. I like the look on your face right now too much,” he said, scanning your face and lingering on your lips before ending with your eyes, complete with a murderous light in them. “Mm. Those flushed cheeks and nice lips and those gorgeous, angry eyes on the cusp of slipping over the edge. You’re close, aren’t you?”

“What do _you_ think, fuck-o?”

Mike raised an eyebrow. “That’s not very nice.”

“ _You’re_ not very nice,” you said, legs trembling too much to finish that roll of your hips, and you sank onto his fingers to the knuckle, “God, Mike. You’re—you’re gonna make me come.”

Your walls were tightening around him, but the sleazy motherfucker said, “No, I’m not,” and he removed his fingers, bringing them to his mouth. You jaw and hips fell slack as you watched him lick his fingers clean.

Resting your forehead against his shoulder, you struck his chest without much force behind it. “ _You_ …you fucker.” You were about to curse him out to the sound of him smacking his lips for the heck of it when you felt his cock twitch through his pants.

Mike finished making a show of cleaning his fingers with a loud slurp. “Oh, are you upset? Is there something I could do to make this experience better for you?”

“Yeah,” you said, sitting up, “ _Lieutenant_ is not a term of endearment.”

“The movie made in 1983 by James L. Brooks is.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Now, why would a starship captain know that?”

“It’s my civic duty,” said Mike, matter-of-factly.

“Fine,” you said, and, leaning in close and starting on his jawline near his ear, you trailed short kisses across his warm cheeks and slightly swollen lips. You ran your hands through his chest hair and down his stomach; his cock jumped when you touched it through fabric.

“Okay, I get it. I’ve got the message,” said Mike, panting slightly as he unbuckled his pants and dragged the zipper down. “Hailing frequencies better not be the only thing open.” He stopped for a moment, grinning himself at your exasperated smile, and you bent to kiss him again—he laid his hand flat against your midriff to push you away. “No,” he said, still grinning, and his gaze sank down your figure, starting from your face and down your stomach.

“Mike?” You rested your hand in his hair. “Are you o—”

But he’s wrapped his arms around your waist and flipped positions: you’re splayed on the command chair beneath him, and he’s got a hand planted on the cushion next to your head, leaning in like a bully in a high school hallway, and a knee shoved directly against your heat.

“No,” he said again, a hand shooting out to still you by the shoulder when you squirmed, “I want to _look_ at you while I _fuck_ you.”

“Holy shit,” you said softly to yourself as Mike yanked off his pants and plaid boxers, “Holy _shit._ ”

“C’mon, darlin’,” he said, returning his knee to your crotch and taking his cock in hand, “You act like you’ve never fucked on the bridge before.”

“I—I _haven’t_ ,” you said, not able to tear your gaze away from his cock, and you, gently brushing away his hand, took it in your own. Pre-cum smeared on your palm, but you took what lubrication you could get, wrapped your fingers around his familiarly thick cock, and began working more out of him. Once his breathing hitched, you pulled Mike down so that you could press kiss after kiss to his face, his cock feeling heavier and slicker with every pass of your palm.

He let out a short, clean _fuck,_ and you angled your head to suck at the underside of his jaw; his hips bucked unintentionally, jerking into your fist, when you twisted your wrist on the way down his cock. Mike let out another _fuck_ , this one long and drawn out, closing with a growl edging into his voice. You arched your back so that he could run his hand down it, and he cupped your ass, dragging your hips forwards until they were lined up with his. For a moment, his cock brushed against your stomach, painfully hard as he shifted his hips against you, all but fucking himself against you. Mike groaned but kept his mouth shut tight, stifling what noise he could with a grimace.

You placed a hand on his chest, fingers curling into his chest hair and tugging, which snapped Mike back onto this astral plane. With a prolonged glance at you, he dragged the swollen head of his cock against the seam of your cunt, hot and soft and slick from what he’s done to you, but he jerked his cock against your clit, and you swore you forgot how to fucking breathe.

He worked the head of his cock into you and waited when your chest heaved, your eyes wide open, for the stretch. “Are you good?”

You tried to answer but realised after a beat that you needed words. “Ethically? No one is,” you managed to get out, “Because human depravity knows no limits. But, ah, I’m ready now, for you to keep going.”

Mike gave you a small smile, light glinting in his eyes, and he pushed wholly into you. You gasped first through gritted teeth and again, with some vocalisation to it this time, with an open mouth.  
  


Mike let out a laugh. “You _lose_ ,” he said, as he pulled his hips back, almost completely out of you, before snapping them back, shoving himself all the way back in.

“Ah, um—you muffled some moans earlier, baby,” you said, and Mike grabbed handfuls of your curves, steadying you as he picked up his pace—you yelped, and he guided your hand down to between your thighs to feel the way you stretched around his cock.

“Yeah, well—right now, if you make another sound, I’ll ensure you won’t be able to sit for _days_ ,” said Mike. He adjusted your hips and grinded into you, and—your head fell back against the chair, your jaw loose—and hit you in a place so deep that you swore you could distinctly feel the ridge of the head of his cock inside you.

Your hands slipped to his forearms, gripping them hard, and he let out a hot, shuddered breath against your neck. “ _Fucking_ hell. You feel so _good_ , darlin’. So soft, everywhere.” He pressed his lips together against your skin and meant to suck a bruise, but he couldn’t muster up the strength. “Fuckin’ _everywhere._ ”

You’re the one who initiates the kiss; you’re the one who has intentions to break the other, but it’s _you_ who’s weak when he dragged his tongue against the roof of your mouth, _you_ whose chest heaved at a swelling wave in your stomach, _you_ whose voice cracked at the beginning of an orgasm—it’s—it’s like water bubbling up into more and more foam, frothier yet frothier still as it boils away to nothing.

You were trying your best to stop shaking and for your hips not to just be jerking up and down his cock when Mike came, his breathing laboured as he swallowed hard, still thrusting into you as he came down from his orgasm.

He pulled your hair to expose more of your neck to him, and he kissed your larynx lightly, letting his lips linger for a moment while he caught his breath. Steeling himself, he reached down to touch your clit.

“ _Whoa_ ,” you said, flinching at his touch, “What is the fuck? _Mike_.”

“We’re,” he said, jutting out his jaw and running his hand through his hair, sticking up with sweat, “We’re not done yet. I want you splayed across this chair and crying under my tongue once I’m done with you. I want—” He took a deep breath and exhaled with deliberation, trying to get himself back to normal. “I want you so overstimulated that you’re _begging_ for me to stop. And I won’t.”

“Oh, my God?”

Mike massaged his fingers into your ass, feeling a bit bruised by now, with his fingers kneading deeply. It made you wince, but it’s a pain you wanted more of. He returned briefly to your nipple, sucking on it to send heat _straight_ to your clit, before continuing down your stomach. He yanked up your hips and wrapped his hands around your thighs, spreading them. You tried to shut them, but when Mike shot you a look, you opened your legs with trepidation. Hell, you were still vaguely shaking from your first orgasm.

After he tossed your thong to the side, the tip of his tongue met your clit, and you squeaked out the most pathetic _fuck_ you’ve ever said as you jerked away from him. He didn’t let you move more than a few inches, and Mike, staring you down with his warm, brown eyes, lowered his mouth again and stuck his tongue into your slit. You inhaled sharply through your teeth, and he ran it up to your clit, circling it in increasing pressure and speed. Your whole torso came off the command chair, your back twisting at what should be an abnormal angle. You’re back with the ever-foamier water, but it’s overflowing and frothily leaking over the side of the pot and into the fire. Knees shaking, you writhed and clamped your thighs against his shoulders. The moment you thought you were close to screaming, Mike backed off, pulling himself away with a wet smack, shooting you a grin before returning to nip at your labia.

“Oh, come _on,_ ” you said over his laughter, but you shut up, your eyebrows shooting to your hairline, when he took your clitoral hood between his teeth and gently bit it.

You were tearing up when your hands found their way into his hair and pulled his face closer. “Mike. _Michael_ , you absolute _gorgeous_ sadist, you’d—Mike— _oh_!” You slurred his name into something that’s neither question nor exclamation, because he was sucking your clit into his mouth, nibbling at the hood while tapping the thing itself with his tongue.

When you came, you spasmed to the side, your vision going dark for a second, and it’s wet and burning with a damp, heavy heat, with Mike spreading it over your inner thighs. You were still cresting, still coming, as Mike kept going, a pulse travelling through your body with every twitch.

He forced you down to grind on his face, with your back arched, face scrunched as the pattern of the armchair dug into your skin. It was— _every_ muscle strained against him; _everything_ felt tight. You’re boiling away into nothing when you felt his smirk against you. The _gall_ of that man.

When you fell back into the chair, you struggled to catch your breath, trying to swear loudly but unable to find your voice. Your eyes glazed over with darkness on the edge of your vision, but you registered that Mike blew cold air over your clit and ran his hands up and down your thighs before placing one on your face, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip.

“Open up,” he said, mere moments before he kissed you, so it wasn’t much of a warning—he squeezed your jaw, and your come and his, bittersweet and salty, coated your tongue. You’d like to return the kiss as vehemently as he’s pressing his lips against yours, but you—you can’t do it.

“Freedom is never a right to be sacrificed,” said Mike, moving to kiss your eyelids with his wet but chapped lips, “but in this situation, I believe, it was worth it.”

“God _fucking_ damn it,” you said, slapping a hand to the temple Mike wasn’t currently kissing, “We completely abandoned the crew and the fucking ghost cult.”

“I don’t mind,” said Mike, smiling gently at you, “I didn’t know how we were going to solve it, anyway.”

“ _Fffffuck._ Mike.” You looked up at him. “You are so kind. So loving. And _frustrating._ I’ll get back at you for this, you beautiful bastard. But Mike. You are—so wonderful. I can’t imagine doing anything like this for anyone else, and I don’t want to.” You brought him down to kiss him, once. “I love you, Mike.”

“The feeling is mutual, Lieutenant,” he said, and you dropped your arms from around his neck and fucking stared at him in incredulity.

You swallowed thickly. “Captain, I believe the logical course of action from this point onward is to retreat to our quarters, tidy ourselves up a bit, and watch _Terms of Endearment_.”

And Mike grinned toothily. “That’s a horrible idea. Let’s do it.”

**Author's Note:**

> all hail the glow cloud


End file.
